The carriage curtain, embroidered with flowers and birds, was lifted open a crack by the wind, and Yin Huayue sat stiffly as the cool air swept full across her face, the light in her eyes gradually fading, the heat on her face slowly cooling away entirely.

The man behind her was still laughing, as though he’d stumbled upon some extraordinary rarity, leaning in. “Tell me clearly what feelings you have.”

“…”

The restlessness and panic in her heart dissolved without a trace. Huayue pressed her lips together, closing her eyes in self-mockery. What blazing fire, what heroic figure with a spear — none of that was something a servant should be thinking about.

Never mind Li Jingyun — even she herself, coming to her senses now, found it absurd. A little teasing, and she’d taken it seriously, stammering and blushing like a fool. If he hadn’t burst out laughing, she really would have…

The thing weighing in her chest kept sinking further. Huayue took a deep breath, braced a hand on the seat’s edge, and stood up.

Her lap suddenly empty, Li Jingyun looked up. “Hey, you haven’t finished what you were saying — where are you going?”

The person before him didn’t answer. She bowed to him, then turned and stepped out of the carriage.

His smile froze. Li Jingyun lifted the curtain and followed. “Hey.”

Huayue got out of the carriage and, without looking back, walked toward the line of servants at the rear. Her spine held ruler-straight, her pale blue-green skirt fluttering in the wind, she disappeared behind another carriage before long.

“What’s she in such a mood about…” Li Jingyun muttered.

The mountain road was strewn with rocks, and walking too quickly risked a twisted ankle, but Yin Huayue never once slowed her pace, as though quarreling with someone — even after twisting her ankle, she kept walking, her face cold as ice, not a trace of warmth in her eyes, so that the servants coming toward her instinctively stepped aside.

Shen Zhiluo leaned half against the carriage door, watching quietly as she approached.

Word had come back from those gathering information that the steward at the General’s estate was gentle and easygoing, wearing a smile for everyone. Yet somehow, whenever they encountered him, it was always when she was in a temper, sharp-browed and bristling all over.

She passed by his carriage, seeming not to see him, and made to walk straight past.

Shen Zhiluo laughed softly, reached out, and scooped her up, pulling her into the carriage.

The motion was sudden, but he was confident it was gentle enough — he hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t bumped or jostled her.

Yet Yin Huayue immediately drove an elbow backward into him, with tremendous force, as though trying to punch a hole straight through his abdomen. He grunted in pain, and had just managed to catch her elbow when her other hand came slashing down fiercely at his neck.

Shen Zhiluo’s face turned pale.

“Little mistress.” He said, “It’s me.”

Yin Huayue turned, her gaze icy beyond words. “Something you need?”

He faltered slightly, steadying her and setting her onto the soft seat, sighing helplessly. “As for what happened today — the Crown Prince had prepared for it well in advance. It can only be said that Chang Gui sent a lamb into the tiger’s mouth; it wasn’t a case of me deliberately betraying anyone.”

Huayue looked up, expressionless. “You and Chang Gui are colleagues. I am not. Whether he lives or dies has nothing to do with me — why explain it to me at all?”

“And Ninghuai?” Shen Zhiluo looked at her steadily. “Does he have nothing to do with you either?”

A flash of something rigid crossed her eyes, followed by dark emotion surging up. Huayue looked back at the man before her and suddenly gave a sneering laugh. “Sir Shen, you’d best not bring up that name — hearing it come out of your mouth, out of nowhere, sounds sickening.”

“…”

Shen Zhiluo stood frozen for a moment, countless emotions swirling in his pale purple eyes — something like resentment, something like grievance, something like anger, something like exhaustion.

After a long silence, he said quietly, “I sought you out precisely to tell you about him.”

Huayue’s eyes shot up abruptly.

His fingers rubbed at the star embroidery on his sleeve. He lowered his brow, looking suddenly haggard. “After the First Prince died, his remains were burned, and along with some of his personal effects, buried at the summit of Guanshan — a hidden place, one that should never have come to anyone’s knowledge.”

“But unfortunately, a pine tree growing over the spot he was buried has flourished for five years now, its shape and form outstanding, and it’s been dug up and sold off by the hunting ground’s keeper. With the pine tree gone, whatever lies beneath could easily resurface in this world if we’re not careful.”

“This spring hunt, we need to find a chance to fill in that place, or else… take away whatever matters most.”

His thoughts seemed to drift somewhat, and Shen Zhiluo said quietly, “I originally thought that since you were no longer around, this matter would fall to me alone to handle. But now that you’ve come after all, we still ought to discuss it together.”

Huayue listened with a frown, saying warily, “You’re second only to the Crown Prince himself now. Do you really need to move things yourself?”

The man before her laughed softly, and as he moved, the stars on his robe shimmered. “Guanshan is an imperial hunting ground. Except during the spring and autumn hunts, it’s under heavy guard at all times, off-limits without official order.”

“No matter how you look at it, this is the place where my reputation was made across the realm. If I casually sent someone to dig things up there, wouldn’t the Crown Prince grow suspicious?”

The latter half of that was self-mockery. Huayue listened, her expression growing complicated.

A few years ago, during the chaos between Liang and Wei, Zhou Heshuo of Liang had captured Yin Ninghuai, Prince of Wei, alive at Guanshan. Yin Ninghuai had written a letter of surrender, betraying his country and colluding with the enemy, opening the gates of the capital to disaster for the common people. Later he’d shown some measure of remorse, but was killed by his own close aide, Shen Zhiluo, his remains left with nowhere to rest.

That year, the great state of Wei had fallen to ruin, its prince condemned by a thousand pointing fingers, while Shen Zhiluo, having defected to Zhou Heshuo’s service, escaped that fate and continued to enjoy wealth and glory — but also bore the name of traitor.

This was the story as she knew it.

But seeing Shen Zhiluo now, she sensed something wasn’t quite right. If Yin Ninghuai had truly been killed by Shen Zhiluo’s own hand, there was no way any personal effects would remain — they’d surely have been handed over to Zhou Heshuo long ago. And upon seeing her, there’d be no need for excitement or joy; he could simply have scooped her up and delivered her before Zhou Heshuo for a guaranteed reward.

What was he really after, acting like this?

Sensing her confusion, Shen Zhiluo’s eyes curved. “The way the little mistress looks at me now is just like it was ten years ago.”

Ten years ago, she hadn’t even reached his waist, her hair done up in two coiled buns, silver bells tied to them, jingling as she tilted her head up at him. She’d loved circling around him endlessly, always picking up the hem of his long robe that dragged on the ground and perching it on top of her head, asking him in wide-eyed confusion: “Grand Astrologer, what is fate?”

“Grand Astrologer, why can’t I leave the western palace?”

“Grand Astrologer, what is a ‘little mistress’?”

An innocent child, crying when unhappy and laughing when pleased, her voice crisp as silver bells, able to fill half the forbidden palace with sound.

But now…

Listening to him, something in her expression loosened slightly, as though some memory had stirred, but only for a moment before it hardened cold once more. “No one lives forever in the past.”

Shen Zhiluo withdrew his gaze, rubbing at the cosmic compass in his hand, and let out a long sigh.

He produced a diagram and pressed it into her hand, and after thinking it over, still spoke up to caution her: “The Third Young Master of the Li family is no good person. Be careful around him.”

Her hand holding the diagram stiffened. Huayue felt a flash of awkwardness, saying with mild irritation, “I know that well enough myself.”

“If you truly knew it well, you wouldn’t be so restless.” He reached out to rub at his stomach, still aching from where she’d struck him, and shook his head. “I calculated your fate from the moment you were born. You have no romantic destiny in this life — the mark of one fated to grow old alone. Force yourself against that fate, and you’ll only meet a bleak end.”

Her fingers tightened. Huayue looked up, displeased. “Have you ever calculated your own fate, sir?”

Shen Zhiluo shook his head. “That is a secret of heaven, not to be peered into.”

“I think you simply don’t want to look.” She took the diagram, her voice cold. “You open your mouth and declare someone doomed to grow old alone, without leaving the slightest room, casually stripping away all hope, leaving them to wait for death with nothing to look forward to — such a heartless, unfeeling act, yet you’d never apply it to yourself.”

He faltered, frowning. “That’s not what I meant.”

“If that’s not what you meant, then what is?” Huayue’s mouth twisted, her eyes full of mockery. “Since I was born you’ve called me inauspicious, said when I was older that I’d bring ruin to the country, and later, once I truly lost my home and family with nowhere to turn, you told me I have no romantic destiny, fated to grow old alone. Sir Shen, what have I done to earn such hatred from you?”

“…” Shen Zhiluo opened his mouth, at a loss. He reached out to touch her hairpin, but she dodged quickly, shifting further away from him, glaring at him with resentful eyes.

His fingers slowly curled shut. Shen Zhiluo lowered his eyes, his already colorless face turning paler still.

“Do you resent me?”

Huayue laughed lightly. “How would I dare resent you? You can glimpse the will of heaven and warn us mortals of what’s to come — that’s a blessing. Not burning three sticks of incense for you morning and night is disrespect enough on my part — how dare I be so ungrateful as to resent you?”

“Why not tell me exactly when I’ll die too, so I can prepare my coffin in advance and lie down in it, sparing myself the fate of dying without a proper burial, without even a grave to my name — now that would truly be bleak.”

Her words dripped with sarcasm, each one landing like a needle, sharp enough to sting. Shen Zhiluo began to cough, his wide sleeve covering half his face, coughing until his eyes reddened.

Huayue watched him coldly, wanting to needle him further, but her lips moved and in the end she closed them.

He was, after all, the one who’d watched her grow up. No matter how cruel or final things became between them, he was still the last family she had left.

She let out a stifled breath and turned to lift the curtain and get out, but the moment she reached for it, Shen Zhiluo grabbed her.

He was still coughing, his brow knit tight, his eyes on her, shaking his head firmly.

Huayue didn’t understand, and was about to say surely he wasn’t going to stop her from leaving either — when she felt the carriage come to a halt.

Outside, many people seemed to have arrived, footsteps chaotic, but after a moment, all sound abruptly stopped near the carriage shaft.

“Master.” Zhou Heshuo bowed respectfully toward the carriage. “There’s something I don’t understand. Might I ask for your guidance?”

“…” Huayue’s jaw dropped.

Shen Zhiluo clearly hadn’t expected him to come at this moment either. His expression turned unpleasant, and between coughs he said, “Your Highness, this humble servant is feeling unwell — I’m afraid I can’t say much.”

Disappointed, Zhou Heshuo withdrew his hand, thought it over, and turned to call Li Jingyun to head back with him. But just as he turned, a glimpse from the corner of his eye caught a flash of pale blue-green.

Shen Zhiluo always wore purple-brown — a pale blue-green skirt hem, however he looked at it, shouldn’t belong to him.

He narrowed his eyes slightly and stopped in his tracks, asking unhurriedly, “Does the Master have another guest?”

Every hair on Yin Huayue’s body stood on end. She instinctively shrank further inward, only to feel her waist suddenly tighten.

The pale blue-green hem vanished. The person hidden within said nothing.

Displeased, Zhou Heshuo reached out and grasped the carriage curtain. “The Master once promised he would never lie to me. Seeing this now, it seems that promise has been broken.”

The curtain lifted, and the person hidden within had nowhere left to flee. He’d just opened his mouth to scold when he looked up and froze on the spot.

A small, delicate figure nestled within the purple-brown starry robe, her clothing in disarray, her posture intimate. She looked up at Shen Zhiluo, faint tears glistening in her eyes, utterly captivating and coquettish.

Shen Zhiluo raised his wide sleeve to cover her completely, both flustered and mortified. “Your Highness!”

“…” Zhou Heshuo’s mouth fell open.

Not just him — the attendants and eunuchs behind him stared in shock as well, none of them having imagined that the worldly-detached Grand Astrologer would put on such a display in his carriage. Everyone wanted to see his expression.

But Li Jingyun’s gaze landed on the person in his arms.

His dark pupils swept over the pale skirt, landing on the pale blue-green sash at her waist. He paused, and his gaze suddenly darkened.